Gunpowder Moon
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: The Apollo astronauts had commented that moondust smelled like gunpowder. In the 22nd century, as the moon became a battlefield between the RDA and other groups, it began to carry that smell for other reasons...


**Gunpowder Moon**

Someone, at some point, had said that in space, no-one could hear you scream.

Far as Lieutenant Blythe was concerned, that person could go stuff themselves. Because most certainly people could hear you scream in space. Yeah, space was a vacuum, but hadn't that person heard of radio transmissions? Like, if there was some kind of monster on a space ship, and that space ship contacted another space ship, wouldn't the people on the second ship be able to hear them? Screaming as the monster killed them one by one, before letting out some kind of roar or hiss? Like, did the person who made that claim actually think things through?

Of course, space monsters didn't exist. Terrestrial monsters did though – the bastard race known as Man. So while the moon wasn't space (in as much that it was an actual body with gravity), the same principle applied. As shots and screams faded into vacuum, no-one could hear the monsters here without sufficient technology. With the technology though…it was available for everyone. Himself included. The men and women under his command were dying. His only hope that the forces attacking the helium-3 facility were dying as well.

He gave the orders, despite the screams. To hold position. To keep firing. He couldn't really urge any of the troopers to die for country, or any principle of freedom, because they came from numerous countries, and the only principle between them was that the RDA paid well. Some were here because they wanted the money. Many were here because they needed the money. All of them were here, in a series of trenches and pillboxes, opening fire across the Sea of Tranquillity at the opposing force. "Terrorists," the RDA called them, as if they thought the people under their command were that naive. Blythe knew the truth though – the moon was a harsh mistress. The moon was orbiting a dying world, and with the double whammy of an energy and environmental crisis, helium-3 was one of the few resources there was to keep the human race's head above water, even while so many other continued to drown. Even here, there was only so much of the stuff to go round. Other companies wanted it. Other countries wanted it. PMCs were happy to sell their services to get it. So if that meant attacking this facility, then so be it. If that meant defending the facility, so be it as well.

He fired his rifle, as did the dozens of troopers all across the defensive line. He'd fought on Earth, and had quickly learnt that lunar combat was very, very different. Less gravity, so one had to reorientate themselves. With the lower gravity, guns had far more recoil. Flipside was that due to said lower gravity and the lack of any air, projectiles could travel further and faster. Downside was that if your suit got breached, you were fucked.

"Shit!"

He heard Singh exclaim it over the radio. Turning, keeping his head down as lunar dust puffed up and down all around him, he knelt down. Blood was pouring out of his shoulder, vaporizing in the vacuum.

"Get down," Blythe said. He pulled out some SealFoam from his belt. He couldn't see her eyes from behind the polarized visor, but he could imagine it – the thing stung. But it was better than having one's skin exposed to vacuum, and the constant bombardment of radiation the sun-facing side of the moon received.

"Fucking hate this," she murmured.

"Stop whining."

She did so. That, or she was whining and had turned her radio off so he couldn't hear. Still, the exclamations, the cursing, the shouts and screams…they filled up the platoon's line.

_We come in peace for all mankind, _he reflected as he sealed the cap and returned his gaze to the frontline. _Absolute bullshit._

Must have been nice, coming here two centuries ago he reflected. Might have been nice coming to the moon even one century ago, when the world was still under the impression that it had the time to steadily colonize space, as well as somehow bring Earth back from the cliff that the human race was dragging it towards. Must have been nice, hoping that it wouldn't come to this. Where the Sea of Tranquillity was anything but tranquil. Where the wars that were fought over what resources remained on Earth were mirrored on the moon, and even Mars. Where one could have thought that mankind might have been able to keep its shit together long enough on worlds outside the Sol system before fucking up as it always did and losing its supply of unobtanium. Must have been really, really, _really _nice to stand here in (date), or 2039, and think "hey, this ain't too bad."

Nup. Now he had to deal with an approaching force of enemy armour. Moon buggies and moon tanks – all of them advancing on the SecOps line, all of them lobbing projectiles. It was insane, really, risking collateral damage against a helium-3 plant, but maybe the attackers were that confident in their accuracy, or maybe they were that desperate. After all, things were desperate on Earth, why not here?

"Incoming!"

He could swear he actually heard Tudborough scream that. Like, not just through the radio, actually exclaim that as the shell came down on the line, blowing him apart. It was an eerie sight, seeing space suit and human flesh go flying through the air in slow motion, like some kind of dance macabre. But it was only for a moment. He had to keep firing. They all did. Bullets, rockets, the works. Wasn't just because the RDA was paying them well, it was because there was nowhere else to go. If the plant fell to the enemy, they'd run out of air before they could retreat to a fallback position.

"Lieutenant Blythe."

He activated the feed on his HUD. On it was Major Addion.

"Major."

"Blythe, what's the situation?"

"FUBAR." He ducked down in the trench. "Like, really FUBAR."

"Describe FUBAR lieutenant."

"Heavy armour, light armour, the works. They're firing on us, and they're pretty good at it."

More screams and curses filled the line as if to emphasize his point.

"Any air support?"

"What?"

"Any air support?"

"Don't think so."

"_Confirm _it, lieutenant."

Blythe poked his head up. The skies were empty. No clouds, no stars, no ships. All there was was Earth, and that was hardly relevant.

"Nothing, major."

"Good. ETA in one minute."

"ETA?"

"Bringing the rain lieutenant. Hang in there."

_Doesn't rain on the moon. _He spared Earth a glance. _Doesn't rain much there either._

Well, it did, technically, but not in the way it had centuries ago. When it rained, it poured – it was all or nothing. A world of droughts and flooding rains. A world that was quite like the moon, in that "bringing the rain" often referred to bringing more death and destruction.

"Holy shit," he heard Singh whisper.

He saw it too. A gunship. One that was very unlike those used on Earth, in that from down here, it looked like a floating brick. With no air on the moon, there was no need to design it to be aerodynamic. It just hovered there in the airless void, six thrusters keeping it afloat. It was called the _Artemis_-class gunship, and like the huntress of myth, it lived up to its namesake.

"Go get 'em boys," Singh whispered.

Blythe didn't say anything. He knew what was coming. "Go get 'em, wasn't a phrase that came to his mind.

He could see the approaching enemy falter. Saw their tanks back up, their buggies turn tail. Incredibly, some of the tanks actually opened fire on the gunship. With the lack of gravity, their shells could actually hit it. Still, the Artemis had been designed with that in mind, and such itty bitty shells couldn't scratch it. In contrast, when it opened fire with its gun turrets and missiles…the ground forces didn't stand a chance.

In space, everyone could hear you scream.

They could also hear you cheer as the SecOps forces celebrated the defeat of the enemy.

Blythe remained silent. As he always did.

* * *

He was the last to go through the airlock. Wounded had gone first. Able troopers second. CO was the last off the field.

He stripped off his spacesuit and let it hang on the racks, as did the dozen or so others. That was all that was left. Some of them were stained with blood. All of them were stained with moon dust. Damn stuff got everywhere. It was why they were kept here, and it was why he'd have to go through a second airlock to make sure none of the stuff entered the base. Certainly that was what the automated voice was telling him to do, circumstances be damned.

**Please proceed to the secondary airlock.**

_Piss off._

**Please proceed to the secondary airlock.**

_Told you to piss off._

**Please proceed to the secondary airlock.**

He didn't bother saying a response, let alone think one up that time. Instead, he ran a finger along his suit, the dust staining his fingers. He drew it up to his nose and sniffed.

_Still the same._

**Please proceed to the secondary airlock.**

Centuries ago, the Apollo astronauts had remarked that moondust smelt like gunpowder. Of course, moondust didn't really have a smell, though there was some who said it was the result of exposing it to air, after being left in vapourless vacuum for billions of years. Sniffing it now, as he'd done before…Blythe had to agree.

**Please proceed to the secondary airlock.**

He knew the smell of gunpowder. He'd smelt it on Earth, as guns went off all around him, as people fought and killed to stay alive.

**Please proceed to the secondary airlock.**

He knew it from the military. From SecOps, when they'd offered him a larger pay cheque.

**Please proceed to the secondary airlock.**

And now, he even knew it on the moon. As war spread from Earth to Luna, as surely as it had to Pandora a decade ago. A world cut off from Man, the RDA, and likely all the better for it as far as he could tell.

**Please proceed to the secondary airlock.**

He sighed, and obeyed the voice.

**Hold your arms out for decontamination.**

Decontamination. Earth was turning into a toxic wasteland, and they were worried about "decontamination."

**Beginning decontamination.**

_Sure, whatever._

He could live with it.

Because in the last days of Earth, in the last days of Man, as he waited for the end to come one way or another…what else could he do here?

What else did one do, upon this gunpowder moon?

* * *

_A/N_

_Fun little fact, moondust has been commented to smell like gunpowder by Apollo astronauts, after bringing it back into the module (courtesy of sticking to their suits). That said, the actual idea for this was a novel I came across in the library actually titled _Gunpowder Moon_, which got me to look up the tidbit in the first place and drabble this up._


End file.
